


Geiger Counters Can't Quote Milton

by King_Red



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Slavery, Wasteland AU, questioning the ethics of morality in horrible circumstances, raiders are not your friends, the wasteland is kinda fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_Red/pseuds/King_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, Peridot thinks falling asleep in the desert was a piss poor idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geiger Counters Can't Quote Milton

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this while on vacation over the past week or so. Honestly, I'm quite happy with the results; still testing the waters with this kind of prose.
> 
> Basically, Lapidot is a shining beacon in the depressingly bleak ocean of the post-apocalypse.

A highway, old and bleached by blistering sun, sizzling waves of heat curling off the caliginous asphalt and ascending into the midday air. A soft breeze kicks up yellow sands long eroded by the elements, twirling them around it’s ethereal fingers like spooled twine. Small animals sleep patiently beneath the desert, waiting for night to fall so another hunt can begin.

Gas station: decrepit, with the awning half collapsed and bits of broken plastic and glass littering the lattice pavement. An aging trunk, once painted red but now rusted brown and faded sits in the shade, the only sign of life for miles and miles. Its hood is propped, engine emitting smoke white and thick as an afternoon cloud.

“You find anything yet? It’s sweltering out here.”

She sits cross legged, the giantess, tanned skin lined with burn stripes long since healed. Her broad back leans against one of the steel beams supporting what remains of the rooftop, a loaded rifle gripped loosely between meaty hands. Her tangerine eyes lazily scan the road before flitting back to the attached garage. More of a service station, technically, gun-metal door propped open by a smattering of loose bricks.

“If I had, do you think I’d still be digging around this crap heap?” calls a voice from inside, slightly nasal.

“Far be it from me to tell you how to spend your time, Peri.”

Small, gloved hands, rough callouses beneath are buried deep within the husk of an abandoned Cadillac. Her viridescent eyes narrow as she ducks beneath grubby cobwebs, searching for parts.

“You know, this would go a lot faster if you just got off your lazy butt and helped me for once!”

“I am helping; someone has to watch the road.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert! Who the hell is going to spot us out here?!”

She doesn’t receive an answer to that, though the faint sound of chuckling makes her scowl slightly. “Stupid Jasper, stupid car, stupid everything… let’s go out East, she said; it’ll be fun, she said…”

Pieces of brittle iron and a thin layer of old, slick oil congeals upon the cracked linoleum. Her jumpsuit is wrinkled and greasy, furrowerd brow beaded with sweat from the suffocating indoor heat. She misses air conditioning. Nothing, only more garbage. Whatever may have been left here was looted a long time ago, save the still-sticky, dime-store food wrappers and scraps of trash. Jasper faces her fully as her footsteps begin to echo across the smoldering blacktop.

“Guessing we’re out of luck then?”

“Your Holmesian deduction skills are impeccable as always, Jasper."

“Told you we should’ve just gone back. I know that town was a cesspit, but at least we know they’d have the parts we need.”

“What, and buy from a bunch of raiders? No thanks, I don’t really fancy getting planted with a _tracking device._ ”

“Pfft. You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry nearly enough! Jasper, we are stranded in the middle of a godforsaken desert with no method to fix our transportation! Do you not see how this might impede our progress?”

Jasper stands to her full height, easily four feet above the technician: nine feet, like the reincarnation of some Norse legend from the Old World. Peridot never knew if her anomalous size was natural, or some kind of mutation. She walks toward her with slow, lumbering steps; casual, more casual than Peridot could ever hope to be in her constant state of jitter.

“So? We have enough water and non-perishables to last us a while. Listen, we’ll just go back to that town and--”

Peridot stamps her foot down. “We are _not_ buying from raiders!”

“Well we don’t have much of a choice, pipsqueak. You’re just gonna have to suck it up.”

“But--”

“Nope.”

“Ugh, whatever! Do what you want.”

She sits in frustration, back against the car, arms across her chest and eyes narrowed in stubborn indignation. Jasper looks, exasperation etched deep into her weathered features. She wipes a large, dirty hand over her angled face. Peridot wasn’t always the easiest to deal with, and she knew it better than most. Sometimes, she had to compromise. 

“Listen, I’ll go into town. You just stay here and make sure no one steals our stuff, alright?”

Peridot's head snaps toward her. “We’re splitting up?”

“I know you’re not gonna buy from them -- I get that. I’m not really keen on the idea myself, but we don’t have many other options. It’ll only take me a few hours or so. In and out, no problems.”

“And if someone does come? I’m a mechanic, not a fighter.”

Jasper unhooks the revolver from her belt and tosses it towards Peridot, who barely manages to catch it between a pair of too-small hands. Her eyes are dinner plates; mouth, a fly trap. She’s only shot a gun a handful of times, and always poorly at that.

“You don’t gotta be a soldier to pull that trigger. Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid.”

A cold feeling -- Peridot associates it with apprehension, or perhaps delirious anxiety couple with a boiling anger -- settles in the pit of her stomach. She has known Jasper for the better part of her life, more than long enough to know she wasn’t about to be convinced into staying. It still  grates on her, but she has learned. 

“This is a stupid idea," she mutters. Peridot had never been good at muttering.

“Well, aren't they all? You’ll be fine, Dot. Stop worrying. I’ll be back with the parts before you know it, and then we can get out of here.”

“You better be. I’ll beat you up if you aren't.” She coughs out a shaky sort of laugh. 

Jasper laughs deep, from the belly -- booming, echoing, admittedly a little infectious -- and engulfs Peridot's shoulder in a reassuring pat before stepping onto the highway. She watches until her friend is out of sight, lost beyond sand dunes and burnt-out vehicles.

Time begins to pass slowly: seventy-two minutes, forty-three seconds if she wants to be precise. She’s been keeping track mindlessly, alternating between watching the clouds and the highway. Boredom gnaws relentlessly as her hands fiddle with the cooler bits of metal. Her muscles are as weary as her mind. Sleep deprivation -- an insomniatic since she was a child -- draws from her a deep yawn. Long nights on the road did nothing for her circadian rhythm.

Peridot closed her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Rumbling echoes into nothingness.Tires squeal black smoke that clogs the sky. Leather fitted with metal and spikes: dangerous -- marking. On their backs, at their hips: knives, guns; killers and sadists who, like so many before them, have let the wasteland swallow up whatever humanity they may have had. Motorbikes with identifiers crudely painted across the fuel tanks, death that signals in colors of yellow, red, black. 

Peridot could hear them coming before she sees them.

Bloodshot sclera revealed behind opening eyelids, groggy and crusted. She groans, grabs her aching head as she adjusts to being awake again. The sun was lower in the sky, almost night; blood orange creeps across the land, and with it comes a chilling change in temperature. She shivers.

“Jasper,” she mutters blearily, “where the hell are you?”

She doesn’t waste any time: the sound of motorcycles out here was nothing to be trifled with,  and raiders weren’t exactly known for their mercy. Peridot, in a split second, grabs the gun and makes a dash for the station, trying her best not to stumble in the dark. Low light and small stature are her friends, one of the rare benefits to being such a shrimp. She hurries inside and ducks behind the front counter, watching with fear from a cracked, dirt-crusted window. When they pull up beside to the truck, a line of sweat trickles down her temple.

There are six of them: tall, burly, all-together terrifying. None of them could’ve taken on Jasper one on one, but that didn’t really matter much when you’re carrying so much firepower. One -- she presumes the leader, portly with face obscured by some kind of makeshift breathing apparatus -- kicks his stand down and starts a slow circle around the truck, looking in the back, under the hood. If she strains, she can just barely make out what he’s saying.

“...whoever owned this thing, they’re long gone now. Must’a broke down a couples hours ago."

He slides a gloved finger across the drivers window. Looks inside. She doesn’t need to see his face to visualize that shark smile.

“And it looks like they abandoned their supplies too. Lucky day for us, boys. Apollo, Janus, you start packing this shit. Hephaestus, Hermes, go check out the station for anything else. Move onto the garage when you finish.”

“You got it, bossman.”

Peridot lets out a small, fearful squeak and hunches down even further. Her heart beats like a jackhammer and she checks the revolver: six shots, fully loaded .45 APC rounds. Somewhere, she thinks that this is only copper and gunpowder: that's all it was, all it took to survive, jammed down into a cylindrical rotter dealing death. 

A distorted, staticy chime rings frontward as the two men roughly shove open the gas station door. She can’t see them, but doesn’t really need to.

“Ares, that piece of shit… why do we always gotta search the creepy fuckin’ ruins?”

“Prob’ly ‘cause the bastard knows his fat arss can’t fit through the door. Wiggly little piggly, oink fuckin’ oink. Bet he’s gonna stuff his face with the shit when we get back to camp.”

“Heh. We probably would too if we sucked Demeter’s cock every five goddamned minutes.”

“No argument there, bucko. A’ight, you check the left, I’ll get the right.”

“Good with me, man.”

Peridot cringes, somehow managing to scrunch even further into herself as heavy footsteps echo around the room. Her pistol is clutched tight. Eyes dart around at random. Everything is loud and overly focused.

“You find anythin’ yet?”

“Nah, just a bunch of useless shit. Some paper, lot of wrappers. Can you believe people ate like this before the war?”

“Herm, I can’t believe a lot a’ shit people say happened before the war. Everyone livin’ like a fuckin’ king ‘er somethin’? Sounds like a bunch of bullshit if ya’ ask me.”

“Whatever, man. My mind can make a heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ quote Milton at me, ya’ lit’le shit. You couldn’t comprehend that kind of genius if it beat yer damn face in with the bluntest crowbar this side a' the pond. Now if yer done runnin’ that gob a' yers like a useless lit'le shit, go and check the back.”

“Yessir, your majesty.”

“Tryin’ to get smart then, eh, laddie? Remember that I can still beat yer ass seven ways to Sunday.

“Mhmm. Whatever you say, old man-- holy shit!”

Peridot pulls the trigger.

The blast was deafening in such a small space, reverberating against the walls with ungodly force. On instinct, Peridot drops the gun and covers her ears. Whoever she shot -- Hermes, she guesses -- is going balistic, holding his upper thigh and spewing curses. A thin line of red dribbles between his fingers. In the distance, she can hear a muffled ' _what the fuck?!'_ It’s enough to drag her from her daze. She grabs the gun again, somehow ignoring the overwhelming sense of dread.

“S- stay back, I’m warning you! I- I’ll shoot again, don’t think I won’t!”

His accent is thicker this time. “Christ fuckin’ Mary-- Hermes, are you alright?”

“What the hell do you think you fuckin’ Limey shit?! This little bitch just shot me!”

huckles. “Yeah, you’ll live.”

He clears his throat, tone dropping an octave. Peridot can't see him, but the image in her mind is enough to make her go rigid. Angry chills race up her spine.

“Ya’ know what’s gonna happen next, right?”

Hermes has gone from screaming to complained groaning, still muttering curses as he ties something long and white around his wound. Peridot doesn’t really care, to be honest, focusing all her attention on the other.

“In the next thirty seconds, every one of the four guys outside is gonna burst in here ready for a fight. You’re gonna be killed, cert’nly.”

If she could see in a mirror, she was sure it’d be a ghost looking back.

“Unless,” he says, impossibly casual, “ya’ drop that gun a’ yers right now and walk out casual like. Slowly, a' course. Got fifteen seconds to make up yer mind.”

He didn’t need to say it outload for the message to be clear. _‘Fifteen seconds to live, or die.’_

“Ten seconds.”

Her options weren’t many. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to go if she could. This was a trap she couldn’t escape, and she knew it.

“Five seconds. Four, three...”

Really, in the end, she always knew what her choice would be.

“Two.”

“Wait!”

She drops the gun, which clatters to the floor with barely a sound; stands slowly with her arms in the air, trying her best to keep an impassive expression and failing miserably.

In front of her stands a tall, broad man, clad in the same armored leather as the rest. His face is mostly uncovered, though it hardly matters with that long, unkempt, silver beard. She can see the machete at his hip is stained with dried blood. His gun -- some kind of rifle, probably entirely handmade -- is pointed right at her.

“Smart choice, lass.”

“What in the ball blazing fuck is going on in here?!”

Same guy as before, the leader; he’s even more imposing up close. Round, but towering over Peridot, probably stronger than the rest of them. Hephaestus hadn’t been wrong, he had trouble getting through the door. Not enough to stop him, nor the other three that flank in after.

“Hephaestus, what the-- who the hell is this supposed to be?”

He points a sausagey finger in Peridot’s direction, practically snarling.

“Some bitch hiding out; prob’ly owns that truck. Nicked Hermes in the leg, but he’ll live, the lit’le crybaby.”

Ares snorts.

“Well why the fuck isn’t she dead yet?”

“Figured she’d be worth somethin’. Young, tiny-- I wouldn’t doubt someone buy her for a pretty penny.”

Slavers were all too common out in the wastes, and it didn’t take a genius to know just how much someone like her was worth. Even more, given her technical skills. Her knees are weak; she feels lightheaded.

“Hmm,” Ares looks over her: up, down, once, twice. The phrase 'cattle inspection' comes to mind.

“Yeah, I think she’d do fine. Good slave material. You check to see if she got anything good on her?”

“Not yet, but yer more than welcome to check yerself. She’s unarmed; dropped the gun by her feet.”

Hermes is already being helped out by the others, but Ares is looking at her with such a cold, clincial depravity, dead eyes and a dead soul. It's living representation of everything she feared about the wasteland and more.

He takes a step forward. Everything is going fuzzy; rushing blood roars furiously in her ears.

The world is spinning.

The world is falling.

The world is black.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's why you don't fall asleep in the middle of the desert.
> 
> We'll probably meet Lapis in the next chapter. Leave your thoughts in the comments below!


End file.
